HAPPY THANKSGIVING, AND WELCOME TO MY NUTS — by guest scribe Sirius the dog

My name is Sirius, and I'm a dog. Aah, don't look so shocked. Some of you out there think this blog could be written better by a dog, so Bunche took the day off and recruited my four-legged ass to fill in while he enjoyed Thanksgiving. At my house, no less.

When that blog-jockey Bunche showed up I growled at him like I do whenever I see him. I know the guy and he's okay, I guess, but now and then you have to remind certain two-leggers of their place. And if he gives me any crap about it, I'll pop him one right in the marble sack with my whip-tail technique. And what's with that asinine Davey Crockett bullshit on his head? The shit isn't even real!

And how's this for inconsiderate: the two-leggers I live with had the temerity to invite a whole slew of their kind over for the night, violating my territory and making too much noise. I mean, really!

They mostly sat around yackyackyacking and slurping down this weird-smelling hot stuff that sure as shit wasn't water. Funny, but as they downed more and more of the stuff, everybody got happier and louder. I have no idea what it was, since I was not offered one single stinking drop.

The male two-legger I live with even put this on the wall above the bowl they were taking their "happy water" from.

I have no idea why, since the little non-moving ants on the paper mean nothing to me. I mean, what the hell kind of ants don't move?

This guy hangs out with my two-legger pack all the time, and the one sitting next to him is his mother. Living here in Brooklyn, I understand most of the weird barks the two-leggers make but I was confused by the mother's noises because most of them were not in English, but instead were what they bark in some place called "Kreet" or something. And even stranger was when the guy barked back to her in that Kreet stuff...I know this guy pretty well and he's never once barked in Kreet, so what the hell was that about?

The worst part of all of this for me was all the food that my pack was making. Think about it: I am a dog and, consequently, I have a nose that detects aromas in ways that you can never even begin to imagine, and while the food smelled good to the noisy bunch of strays, it smelled REALLY good to me and I am not allowed to have anything from off the table. Considering how much food there was, that's pretty fucking mean and no way to treat "man's best friend." If you think it sucks being black, try being a black dog. Believe me, you get NO appreciation.

Tracey, my female two-legger, checked on the enormous "organic, super-free range" turkey — whatever the hell that means — and mouths began to water. I've lived with Tracey for a long time and while she feeds me every day. I vaguely remember getting my meals straight from the tap on someone with ten tits and that DEFINITELY isn't her, so I wonder who that was?

As the massive feed was laid out, I was certain to receive not even a crumb, so all I could do was yearn like a forlorn puppy.

The turkey was a gigantic hunk of poultry awesomeness, running with juices and appetizing meat that didn't even need seasoning — dog's nose, you know — and not one speck of it found its way to my mouth.

There was a lasagna made with pesto, and loaded to bursting with yummy sausage that I did not get to taste.

And among about a dozen other things that my pack made and their strays brought, there was a spinach pie made by the mother who barked Kreet. That stuff smelled too good to resist, so I summoned up the patience of my hunter ancestors and waited to make my move. When I thought no one was looking, I licked that spinach pie like the fragrant end of a bitch in heat and I know that Bunche saw me do it, kindly giving me about twenty seconds at it before playfully shooing me away. I like to think that he's on my side and also had fun with trying to figure out who got the parts I tasted. Funny thing is, I think he got them.

But, sadly for me, a lick is still just a lick, so I had to content myself with my rawhide bone. *SIGH*

The hours dragged by and the pack of strays masticated shamelessly, all heedless of the loyal and noble beast who suffered semi-silently as they gorged.

Soon enough the strays had done a number on that turkey that would have made a pack of hyenas jealous, but still no food-lovin' for yours truly.

Tracey wandered through the noisy throng and since I see a lot of the teevee that she and her mate watch, in this outfit she reminded me of a sci-fi galley slave.

She's a great mom, and I should know what I'm talking about. She was even nice enough to spoon feed garlic mashed potatoes to the strays who needed help after too much of that "happy water."

As my bedtime approached and the strays showed no sign of getting the hell out, I began to wind down and Brendan, Tracey's mate, took time out to comfort me. At least somebody cares...

And I don't know about you, but when I want to make sure that I have pleasant dreams, I like to "have one off the paw" before I sack out, and strays or no strays, I had to get my hump on.

I put my two cushions/girlfriends through a vigorous Great Daneing, and before long I had taken the edge off and regained my composure.

So that's the story of my Thanksgiving. And if any of you are wondering how I, an allegedly "dumb" animal, am able to write a guest spot on this blog, isn't it obvious? I'm possessed.


Sincerely,
Sirius "the Devil's Own" McTague